Tuesday, April 29, 2014

My journey to getting help

Mental illness in the African-American
community – My journey to getting help

by Jaha Zainabu

“Roller coaster! Roller coaster! Up,
up, up, up! Down, down, down, down!” This is the song my three year
old cousin, Aubrey made up and voraciously danced to one night as her
mother and I sat up talking and watching television. As she repeated
it, the song stuck with me. I thought about how it reminded me of how
I feel on many days. Up. Up. Up. Up. Then down. Down. Down. Down.

I had been experiencing emotional lows
since late in my elementary school years. I remember times as a
little girl when I asked my sister Roshann, who is four years younger
than I if she ever felt really sad but didn't know why. I don't
remember her answer. I don't know if the question even made any
sense. I knew I felt that way sometimes and didn't understand why. In
my middle school years the sadness and sudden feeling like being
alone was interpreted as moodiness by my friends. It was also in
middle school when I remember first experiencing the highs. The
extreme happiness for no reason. I was puzzled by it. And then high
school was just, well... high school.

In 2012 it was serious. Before then I
don't ever remember having suicidal thoughts. Even though depression,
which showed itself as “moodiness” had shown up in many ways in my
romantic relationships. The hardest part was not being able to
communicate what was wrong. Nothing was really...wrong. There were
just these tears sometimes. I spent a lot of time hiding sadness; and
when I did feel safe enough to express it, it seemed like every man
in my life wanted to fix it and then became frustrated that they
couldn't. And then the tears would stop and later I would be so happy
and excited about everything. The color of the sky, the sounds of the
birds, everything. I could fit football fields between the two
feelings. The actual thoughts of ending my life were brand new
though. I knew I needed help. I knew I didn't really want to die. I
knew I had too much to live for and more than that, I had someone I
wanted to live for, my son Uraeus. But none of the reasons I had to
live were enough to keep the thoughts at bay. And then there were the
highs that kept coming. And highs by the way, do not always show up
as happy. Sometimes they show up as extreme irritation, especially
when I feel trapped. Like in traffic. There were times I felt I would
combust if I didn't get off the road. And then sometimes, and more
often, the highs showed up as me laughing uncontrollably in
situations that were either not that funny or not funny at all. My
clue that the highs were onset was that I would be talking way too
loud and fast. I could feel myself doing it but couldn't seem to
control it. That would last for a while then I would crash and the
lows would come.

One day I asked a friend of mine,
Donny, who is a poet and psychologist, to meet me at a coffeehouse to
talk about what was going on with me. He gave me his listening ears and some
recommendations for psychologists to see. One night after a poetry
event I went to Denny's with a group of poets. I was talking to Donny at one end of the table and there was another conversation
at the opposite end. There were about twelve of us all together. At
the opposite end were mostly young men who were
engaged in a conversation with two young women. One of the women was
a young poet I know named Venessa and the other woman was her
visiting cousin. The way I remember it is that Venessa's cousin said
something and the men were laughing at her. That's how it felt, like
they were laughing at her and not with her. I saw the look on her
face and knew something was wrong. I didn't know what they were
talking about but I sensed her great discomfort. As a woman at least
a decade older than Venessa and her cousin, normally I would have at
least inquired about the situation added my voice to help. But for
some reason, I started laughing. I don't know why. To this day, I
wish I could take those moments back. I laughed so hard and couldn't
stop. I remember Donny sternly whispering my name to get me to stop.
But I couldn't. Venessa's cousin got up and went to the restroom
wiping her face. I felt awful. I knew that nothing I could say at
that moment could change the situation. Shortly after, I left and
went home. Still feeling bad. I cried the whole night. About nothing.
About everything. I hid my tears because I was in a live-in
relationship and didn't want to explain that I was crying and didn't
know why. Not that he wouldn't have held me and empathized but even
that would have made me feel sad.

The next morning was my first
appointment with my therapist. By the time I got to her office I was
twenty minutes late and felt dreadful about that. I cried and felt
hopeless and miserable like I couldn't do anything right. I was a
wreck. Thankfully she was a wonderful, understanding and patient
woman. But I was still nervous. Dr. M was my second therapist. My
first abruptly ended our sessions in a way and for reasons that still
baffle me. I was seeing the first one, a woman I will call B
for about six months. I was reluctant at first because I didn't know
how comfortable I would be telling my deepest pains to a white woman
whom I didn't know whether or not could relate to me. But shortly into our
first few sessions I relaxed. I started seeing her to sort through a
relationship that ended badly. I was depressed then for many reasons
and no reason. But I was experiencing the cycles back then way more
frequently than was comfortable for me. One week she asked me on a
scale of one to ten where was I in my place of sadness and I told her
I was at an eight. Our session for the week ended with her having me
write down names and numbers of friends I knew I could call if I felt
suicidal. She even asked me to include her on my contact list. I did. The
next week with B I felt a little better but still jittery and uneasy.
Then the next week before I even had a chance to say anything, she
began the session by telling me that she was going to end our
sessions because she felt like she had similar issues and couldn't
advise me as she should and blah blah blah and that I could see
someone else in her office or another office. She watched me slowly
gather my things and walk out. It was like a bad break up movie. I
even remember her faintly calling my name as I walked out the door. I
was too confused to turn around. I was so pissed at her because just
two weeks before I told her I was having suicidal thoughts. Then,
with no reason that made any sense to me, I had to see someone else.
So, needless to say, I was reluctant to seeing another therapist. But
I knew I needed help. I knew it.

So I went to see Dr. M and knew
immediately that she would be a good match for me. She looked and
felt like family. Her soft brown face, style, grace and familiar and
wonderful sense of humor. She was easy to relate to. But the first
day, I was a mess. I was breathless from being late. I have a huge
thing about time. I sat in her immaculate office and wiped my face
with the tissue she gave me. I also have a huge thing about things
being immaculate and was glad she shared that need. I still couldn't
stop crying. I told her I had been so sad lately for reasons and for
no reasons and had been on an up and down cycle for too long and needed answers and help. I also told her about the incident the night before
when I couldn't stop laughing at Venessa's cousin. Told her I was
tired of being so sad and that I kept having awful thoughts and I was
tired of having them. I told her I thought I would give in one day. A
day I felt would come sooner than later. And yep, I had a plan.

I had and have a very healthy spiritual
relationship with a power I call God and all of the proselytizing
about religion and mental health on social media was infuriating. I
am an African-American woman and perhaps people of many ethnicities
look down on people dealing with depression but it for sure happens
way more than I am comfortable with in our community. People saying
that if people had a better relationship with God and Jesus then they
wouldn't have those thoughts or be depressed is not true and to me,
only adds to the stigma of mental illness. No wonder we are so
reluctant to get the help we need. It doesn't make sense to me that
if a leg is broken then it's okay to see a doctor but if there is an
internal problem then seeing a doctor is somehow considered treason
to God.

Here are a few notable facts on the
African-American Community Mental Health Fact Sheet by NAMI
Multicultural Action Center:

African-Americans tend to rely on
family, religious and social communities for emotional support,
rather than turning to health care professionals, even though this
may at times be necessary.

Mental illness is frequently
stigmatized and misunderstood in the African American community.

African Americans are often at a
socioeconomic disadvantage in terms of accessing both medical and
mental health care in 2001, 20.2% of African Americans were
uninsured.

So it seems we know we need help and
are afraid to reach out because we may be looked down upon by friends
and family. We know we need help and are reaching out to people who
could be giving us unhealthy advice. Or we know we need professional
help and don't get it because we are unable.

I was so glad that Dr. M heard me.
That's what I wanted all along, to be heard and gotten even if I
couldn't explain completely how I felt. Even if she had not felt the
way I felt I knew she was listening. She didn't let me leave that day
when the hour was up. She told me to give her my beau's name and
number so she could call him to take me to the hospital. I refused. I
knew that if I couldn't even cry about this in front of him, I
wouldn't be able to explain why I needed to be in the hospital. Also,
I didn't want him to feel responsible or have to take off work. I
tried to get her to just let me go. I tried to convince her, through
my tears that I couldn't explain, that I would go on my own.
Thankfully she didn't believe me. She said that she would either call
the police to take me to the hospital or I could give her a name of a
friend to come to her office and get me. For the record, it is not
standard that when one goes in to see a therapist on the fist visit,
then the therapist threatens to call the police. In my situation, she made the
best professional move she could make. I was in a really bad state and had
confessed that I thought about suicide and I wanted and needed help.
I gave her my friend Laura's number as she worked fairly close to
where I was. In the state I was in, I was so afraid that Laura would
be upset because I interrupted her work. I was obsessed with the
thought that people don't want to be interrupted from their busy
lives to take people to hospitals for something that they can't see.
I didn't want her to call my mother because I didn't want her to
worry and I knew I wouldn't be able to explain it in a way that I
felt made sense. Thankfully though, Laura answered the phone and
agreed to meet me. I was so happy that she was available and happy
that Laura was always someone to whom I could explain my
unexplainables. And I was still crying and unsure at the same time.
Dr. M talked to her and told her what she felt I needed and where I
should go. Laura met me at Dr. M's office. We all talked then Laura
took me to a treatment center near USC Hospital called Exodus.

By the time I got there with Laura I
wasn't crying anymore. I was much more relaxed being with her. She
told me when I went back there not to act like I was okay so they
wouldn't keep me. She told me to tell the truth. She knew me well
because putting on my it's all good face was exactly my plan. I had
become pretty skilled at it once the tears stopped. They finally
called my name after almost an hour wait. I went back and talked to
the doctor and told him about what led me to being there and he asked
me about my history, symptoms and family history. After our meeting
he told me that he suspected I had a mood disorder called Bipolar two
which is a form of mental illness with moods cycling between high and
low. He prescribed medication to even out my moods. Their pharmacy
was closed that day where I could get medication for free so I left
with a plan to come back the next day to pick them up.

The next day was Wednesday, March 28,
2012 (I'm glad I keep journals) and I stayed
at Laura's house that night so I could get up early and pick up my
medication the next morning and not have to travel far. I woke up and
prayed, wrote in my journal, dressed and was out the door. My head
felt clearer. I think mostly because there was some reason to why I
would go from being so happy to the river of tears in which I would
get lost. I needed a reason. The traffic that day was easy. I picked
up medication and took a short walk in effort to keep the commitment
to myself to exercise more. I was making done check marks in my iPad
calendar which made me happy. I still hadn't had the conversations I
needed to have with my partner and family. But I ran a couple of
errands and then I went to work and for the most part it went well.
Then I felt myself getting anxious again. Very anxious. And I was
afraid.

At
that time I was working as a home health aide and thankfully I only
had one client. There was a time less than a year before I had seven.
I was taking care of an elderly woman whose company I enjoyed. The
family I worked for was really cool. And supported me taking care of
my health. The woman's son is a nurse, musician and majorly into yoga
and meditation. It was easy to talk to both him and his wife about
how I was feeling. I knew I had to be honest with them because I
wouldn't want anyone to take care of my mother or family member if
they were feeling unwell.

I
hadn't taken my medication yet because I wanted to be at home first.
I didn't know how I would react to the pills. I didn't know if they
made me sleepy or not and I didn't want to be asleep with my client.
I didn't want to be sleepy driving home. So I waited. My therapist
called me the same day while I was at work and I told her how uneasy
I felt. She reminded me to do what I had to do to take care of
myself.

My
anxiety kept growing greater and greater. Every little thing scared
and irritated me. I began to feel that spiral. That sinking feeling
again. That's what it feels like. Like I'm trying to climb but I
can't because I'm being pulled then eventually I just give in and am
stuck. The man I was in a relationship with at the time was working
nights then and I was still not in full communication with him about
what I was feeling. I didn't even want to communicate how afraid I was
of myself being left alone at night. There is a lot of hiding in
depression. A lot of pretending to be okay. Prior to going to the
hospital I was self medicating with pills to help me sleep. Sleeping
was always an issue. Even with the pills I still couldn't seem to
sleep. That night the anxiety was too much. I was afraid of being
alone and afraid of being with anyone. The dark scary cloud was there
and that was never a match with the anxiety. When I got on the
freeway I was so afraid. I was having panic attacks and I felt like
people were after me. I pulled off the freeway and called my brother,
George. George and I have known each other for many years and we
aren't blood but...we are. He was at work at the time and I told him
I needed to stop driving and he told me to come to his job. We sat in
the parking lot and talked. I think he talked and I cried and
rambled. I told him I needed to go to the hospital but I was afraid
they would keep me. I didn't want to stay in the hospital but the
thoughts were back. The dark, scary thoughts I didn't know I could
defeat anymore. So, I drove myself back to Exodus.

They
kept me there, as I assumed they would. As much as I didn't want to
be there, I knew it was where I belonged. I am so happy that I
got the help I needed. And I will say here that if you need help then
get it. There are all the voices that may tell you to be embarrassed
and feel weird but I advise anyone to thank those negative thoughts
and voices for sharing and keep driving.

When
I'm panicked I notice that I can stay awake for days at a time. Then
when I'm in a place where I can sleep, without any attachments to the
place, without concern for dirty dishes or the ringing phone or who
knocks on the door, I crash. I think that's why I love hotels so
much. Thursday night at the hospital they gave me medication that had
me rest so well. I didn't wake up wake up until almost two p. m. the
next day. I needed that kind of sleep. I felt so much better. No
clouds. No anxiety. No cops chasing me. That's my paranoia. The cops,
when I'm extra anxious, are chasing me. All cars around me are
undercover cops. And "cops" ya dig? Not police. For some
reason in my paranoid state they are cops. Everyone crossing the
street, in line at the doughnut shop, at the gas station, they're all
cops. And they all want me. It doesn't get this bad too often
but when it does, it's bad.

When
I woke up from my perfect rest, I was cool. I thought I could just
thank the nice people for a bed and turkey sandwich, declare myself
well and deuce out. Nope! Seventy-two hour hold, Son! The nurse came
to get me and told me that the ambulance was waiting to take me to
some hospital in the valley. I looked at him and was like “Ummm, no
thank you. I'm feeling much better now.” Then had the nerve to ask
for my belongings. He laughed at me and said “Oh no, you need to go
with them.”

Okay,
so here is where I say this, again, get the help you need! Who is to
say that the cloud, or whatever you call your dark moments, won't be
back? The cloud, the thoughts, the anxiety, the poorly dressed
undercover cops pretending to be just crossing the street or whatever
your thing is could be back without you staying in the process of
getting the help you need. I didn't fight it, not that fighting at
that moment would have helped the situation. They gave me my things
from the safe and put me in the ambulance. I made phone calls to my
mother, sister, a couple of friends and my employer. I think I left a
strange message on my lover's phone then I hung up and just tried to
focus on taking care of myself and being well.

When
we arrived, the check in nurse spoke with me. I liked her right away.
She was thankfully easy to talk to which had me more comfortable in
the busy place. She showed me to my room and I sat on my bed for a
minute then it really sunk in. I was in the the psych ward. The.
Psych. Ward. Say that three times fast. There were people there whom
I was sure were more ummm... psych than I but there were plenty of
staff to handle that. I openly say things like psych ward,
anxiety and paranoia because they are truthfully uncomfortable for me
to admit. But we find ourselves in uncomfortable situations sometimes
and better to get the help we need than to hide behind our shame. Our
shame, our silence, our fear has not protected us.

As
much as I didn't really want to be there, it was the best place for
me. Yes it was a bad time. Yes I had work to do. Yes I felt like I
needed to have better explanations to my friends and family. But it
wasn't about any of that. I was the one who mattered. Me. One of the
hardest things for me to do was tell my mother from inside an
ambulance that she couldn't come up and see me while I was there. I
knew it would be hard for me to see her seeing me there and I just
couldn't take care of her while I needed to take care of myself. My
mother, by the way, is as strong a mother and woman as any. I just
know that it would be hard on any mother to see her daughter in the
psych ward. It would be hard for me. I think it showed more courage
and strength on her part to not fight me and accept want I wanted and
needed.

I
didn't eat much while I was there. I skipped breakfast often mostly
because I didn't feel like eating with everyone. I skipped "group"
because I didn't feel like talking to everyone. I skipped exercise
because I didn't feel like doing braless jumping jacks with everyone
and the guy two doors over kept calling me fine. I didn't have a
change of clothes and the times I could use the laundry room kept
shifting. Basically I walked around in my gown looking like Casper
the non-compliant ghost. I talked to my doctor, the nurse and my
roommate and that was pretty much it. I don't know if that's how it
was supposed to go but that was how I worked my program. Oh, and I
wrote a lot. Writing is necessary for me. I would have gone flip
without the pencil the nurse gave me that was only almost as large as
my pinky finger and the few sheets of paper I was rationed to to
scribble my thoughts onto. I think I just needed the time and space
and constant supervision of professionals.

I
had some favorite and funny moments though. One was when a guy
creeped up on me as asked me what I looked like before they cut my
hair. For twenty years I have rocked my hair cut near bald and I
guess he thought the staff had to strap me down and shave me for some
reason. Bless his heart. Then there was the German doctor who stared
at my head the whole time we talked and didn't seem to believe I was
a writer. I guess he thought in some fit of frenzy I snatched my hair
out by the follicles and was tied down by two big men in white jackets. And of course as the nurse went down the hall
each evening and called for quiet time was when someone had to use
the phone. And television was always interesting. In the TV room we
watched dolphin documentaries because Cold Case made That Girl sad
and He got angry if This was on and Neither of Them were comfortable
with That. And you probably didn't know that many documentaries
existed about dolphins but there are plenty.

The
funniest thing that happened was the one time I went to a group
session. Partly because I wanted credit for going to group and partly
because I was bored. Thankfully it was game day. I never went to
group so the others didn't jump at the chance to pair with me. For a
little while I pretty much played Connect Four and Chinese Checkers
by myself. One of the staff members said to another young lady, "Why
don't you play with her?" Talking about me. Except he said it in
Spanish, but I understood. She almost broke out into real tears. She
may even have, I just didn't turn around to see. "Noooooooo!!!!!
Noooooooo!!!!! No! No! I don't want to play with herrrrr!!!" She
said that in English, probably so I would understand. Baby, no
worries. No worries. But see if I rush off the phone for you next
time. I thought.

Yes,
I shared things that were funny and I should have taken group more
seriously but I did really get the help I needed there. I really did.
A particularly special moment for me was when the guy I was in a
relationship with came up to see me. I needed that. I was finally
able to talk and share with him ways that I was feeling that I
couldn't or wouldn't articulate before. I needed the conversations I
had with my therapist, my doctor and the nurses. Even the
conversations I got to have with my roommate really helped me. It
helped me feel not alone. I watched her go back and forth to the
bathroom to cry. I understood that kind of hiding. I asked her if she
knew why she was crying and I understood when she said no. It was a
blessing to me to see us give each other the space we needed. We were
mirrors for each other. There was a big part of me that wanted to
feel like I wasn't them. I was better. I was okay and they were ill
but that wasn't so. We were all there. All of us for different
reasons.

I
was there for about a week. My doctor wouldn't release me until he
felt comfortable that the medication was settled in my system and
that I was not a threat to myself. When I got out I continued taking
my medication. I still have ups and downs and I am still in therapy.
Perhaps I will be for my life, I don't know. A year later I
experienced another really challenging cycle and immediately went to
the doctor. I didn't have to stay that time. My diagnosis was changed
from Bipolar two to Bipolar one. Which is also a form of mental
illness. A person with Bipolar one cycles from manic episodes to
episodes of depression. Which in other words means, I was going from
super highs to super lows. Because I was diagnosed as that then
doesn't mean I will stay that way but it does make me aware of how I
need to take care of myself. I am careful about taking my medication
and being aware of my triggers. I am also more communicative about
how I'm feeling to the people in my life. I don't hide out as much as
I used to and I keep my appointments with my doctors. I'm working my
program now and my life is better than it's been in many years. I
don't have the high highs or low lows anymore. Probably because of
the medication in my system as well as my continued practice of
meditation, prayer and art. Art is important. I am always writing. I
am constantly painting and taking pictures. Art feeds my soul. Find
what feeds yours and nurture it. I no longer have thoughts of suicide.
As a matter of fact, I value life much more. I know how blessed I am
to be here. I am thankful I got the help I needed at the right time.
It doesn't mean that I don't have my days, we all do. All of us. I am
treading carefully these days. And bravely at the same time.

There
are many ways to be treated with mental illness. Probably as many
ways as there are people on the planet. What I wish to convey here is
that if you know that you are not well, get help. Don't hide. I hid
for too long and it didn't help me. Depression and other mental
illnesses are just that, they are illnesses. They do not define your
relationship or not with your higher power. Love yourself enough to
get the help you need. I did and I know it saved my life.